


and then we slide into the arms of someone else

by darkofthemorning



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 16:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20910323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkofthemorning/pseuds/darkofthemorning
Summary: just a bunch of my weird thoughts put together. honestly, i don't really know what this is or what the purpose is or if it makes sense or is even good but i feel like now that it's out there, i can truly start to let go.title comes from "slide" by james bay, which is an incredible song and definiely extremely relevant for the current timeline. give it a listen.





	and then we slide into the arms of someone else

Twenty-two years.

Two-hundred sixty-four months.

Eight-thousand thirty days.

Eleven and a half million minutes.

It feels like quite a long time, really, if you think about it. It’s nearly a quarter of a lifetime, so close to that glimmering silver that’s so commonly awarded like a badge of brilliance.

But in reality, it’s a mere blink in the fabric of time.

Twenty-two years is nothing compared to the mysterious vastness of the universe, to each era and each extinction, the births and deaths of each flaming star and all the time that’s passed since that initial snap that brought life as we know it into perfect place.

Twenty-two years is nothing in the eyes of the universe.

But to two people who have spent nearly two-thirds of each waking minute thus far with each other, twenty-two years is a long time.

Twenty-two years is everything.

It’s first laying eyes on each other as children, the slight tension and stiffness in that hand hold as they skate laps around the rink together, lips unmoving.

It’s long car rides in the back seat at five AM, a large character pillow defying gravity as they lean into each other and suspend it in the air between their skulls.

It’s moving away from all they’ve known to focus on that dream they can see in the distance, out-of-focus but undoubtedly solidified in its place on the golden horizon.

It’s adrenaline coursing through their veins as they take their places on center ice in an attempt to erase as much of the fatigue lingering in their bones from the agonizingly long days and sleepless nights.

It’s those few moments of anxiousness before scores are announced, and that pure ecstasy that follows.

It’s standing atop podiums, smiles so wide that they threaten to tear the delicate skin that rests upon their cheeks, singing the national anthem with loud, raspy voices.

It’s that occasional disappointment that comes when they find themselves outside of that place they were so desperately hoping and training for, mere fractions of points like metal doors slamming mercilessly in their faces.

It’s that support that never seemed to diminish no matter what.

It’s those early mornings at the rink, the tranquil world still fast asleep, the only sounds in the atmosphere the glide of their blades on the ice and their erratic breathing.

It’s the pain, the blood, the stress, the frustration, the tears shed in hotel rooms at two AM.

It’s those aching arguments and that awfully long silence between them that follows.

It’s occasional periods of absolutely no communication.

But it’s also the making up, the jokes shared with a simple glance across a crowded room, the thoughtful cards and gifts, the laughter, the love.

It’s that constant falling apart and falling back together, that ebb and flow that keeps them close.

It’s what makes them _ them_.

But this was while they were skating, while they were partners committed to nothing but the sport and each other, when they were together nearly every hour of any given day, when they were expected to stay so closely connected and not let the other go. 

What comes after this, though?

What follows the diminished need to be together all the time, when phone calls and texts are no longer necessary, when there isn’t a reason to keep in touch?

What will result once they reach that fork in the road, the single path they’ve walked together splitting into two that will never again meet?

What will happen after the final performance, the final bow and applause, as the plastic smiles slowly melt off their aging faces in realization that it’s all over?

What happens after they hold each other for the last time?

It’s what comes after, that dark abyss of what is unknown that haunts each inch of this tragic earth.

Once they travel back to Toronto, once they allow that crisp November air to hit their faces as they prepare for their respective journeys home, will it be the end?

Will they be filled with a flurry of emotion at the thought of this being it?

Will they stand silently, savouring each bittersweet moment that passes as they search in their messy minds for an excuse to stay together in the moment for longer together longer?

Or will they part with a quick hug and be on their way without a second glance?

Will they still talk often, meeting up once in a while to go out and do everything they’ve always wanted to?

Will the air between them grow more strained with each passing day, words exchanged limited to only when necessary?

Do the conversations become shorter, less frequent, until they cease to exist altogether?

Not a single atom in the universe has the answers.

So when he finally arrives home, he’ll fall into the warm embrace of his wife-to-be. They’ll resume preparing for the life they’ve committed to sharing with each other, the space between the walls of their home quickly filling with banter and debates over what flavour of cake they want at their wedding.

She’ll step over the threshold of her house, greeted with the silence and frigidness that arose from the two months it stood vacant.

Everything will be exactly the way she left it, a hum of satisfaction buzzing in her throat as she surveys the space before turning on the heat and making her way upstairs. She’ll call her mom to say she’s back home and chat for a little while about anything and everything that has accumulated in her mind since she left for Vancouver in October.

And while he climbs onto his mattress and slides into the arms of someone else, she slides into the cold, white sheets of her long-abandoned bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin as she waits for sleep to take her hand and bring her into a dreamless dark.

Who knows what the morning light will bring?

Only one thing is for certain: everything will change.


End file.
